


Spare Change and OSHA Complaints

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Am I Using Tags Correctly, Bahorel is also there if you squint, Busking, M/M, This is DUMB and I should not be POSTING IT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:08:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just that the guy shouldn't be this interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spare Change and OSHA Complaints

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hyenateeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyenateeth/gifts).



It's the beginning of his third year at the university when Enjolras starts seeing the street performer on his way to campus. The first time should have been forgettable—a messy looking guy, maybe his age, doing magic tricks with exaggerated enthusiasm. It's memorable only in the unusual crowd and the fact that it gets Enjolras to stop on his way to class long enough to watch through the end of a bit (the dove kept him wondering for weeks). By the end of it, he dropped his spare change in the magician's jar and jogged to class.

The magic lasted for maybe a week. Then it was stunts. Unicycles and acrobatics that had Enjolras grudgingly impressed. The man was shorter than him, but built more solidly, with dark skin thoroughly covered—this the student knew because of the days that had been warm enough for the performer to abandon his shirt—with patches of thick dark hair. Most days, he kept the curly mop on his head tamed into a ponytail at the base of his skull, but it occasionally came loose and made him look wild. For months, through countless gimmicks, Enjolras passed the performer on his way to class. He stopped more often than he'd like to admit, sometimes accompanied but more frequently alone, and usually dropped what he could in the guy's jar on his way past. At first, it had surprised him how consistently people were drawn to his exhibitions (shouldn't the novelty wear off at some point?) but, after a month or so, he and the horde he attracted became commonplace and Enjolras started to miss him on the rare day his spot was conspicuously bare.

He noticed things about the guy, inconsequential and silly. Like how some days he didn't seem to know what he wanted to do, having a case nearby overflowing with miscellaneous stuff, and others he seemed to be more in his own head than in the moment. Sometimes he did portraits and sometimes he dressed every bit the gymnast and took pictures with tourists. Enjolras wondered if he did his own face-paint on those days. Rarely, he was joined by another man—tall and lean with dreads held back by a thin-stretched rubber band—sparring in a way that made fighting look like dancing. Even less often than that, on weekends, when Enjolras was trudging to the library to study, he'd have a child with him. The boy was young, maybe ten, and fearless. The first time he saw the kid, Enjolras was stunned, even outraged.

The performer had laughed at his expression. “Relax, he's had almost as much training as me,” he said. It was the first thing Enjolras had ever heard the man say.

It didn't do much to put him at ease, but he never once saw the child injured or even slip up.

He noticed that, except for when the boy was with him, the performer always had a brown-bagged bottle nearby.

As the weather got colder, Enjolras found himself wondering about the man even when he wasn't actively watching him. While he was getting his morning tea, as he wound his scarf around his neck, riding the bus home, thoughts of the stranger came to him unbidden. It was a strange feeling—concern, the like of which he'd only ever felt for people with whom he was in some way connected, for a man he'd never actually met. Through December, he found himself drifting closer, lingering longer in spite of the chill and the looming threat of being late to class. From time to time, the man would catch his eye and give him the distinct feeling of being laughed at. He never said anything or even outright laughed, but his eyes crinkled and his brow furrowed and he always held the glance a beat too long. Those days, he'd leave discontented and disconcerted.

It was finals week before they actually had a conversation. Enjolras had just spent the morning hip-deep in a semester's worth of notes on medieval philosophy. The notes were impeccable and Combeferre didn't really seem to need the session, but his best friend seemed to feel better about his exam later. The walk from the cafe where they studied was cold enough that they pulled their scarves up to guard their noses and mouths and hunched down into their coats. The silence was crisp but comfortable. It was only a couple minutes before they reached _that_ corner, less populated than usual that day. Enjolras felt his friends eyes on him but found himself seeking out the center of the loose cluster of people before them, unreasonably unwilling to meet his gaze.

The two students slowed and saw, instead of the usual exuberant show of talent from that quarter, an old fold-out table with two tightly-bundled figures sitting at it. The conversation being had was too low to be heard but Enjolras paused, giving Combeferre a questioning glance that went unanswered. A barely audible _ding_ sounded from the table and one of the people stood. After a brief handshake and a few more words, they walked away. Seated, the other man, the stranger Enjolras had been watching for _months_ , tilted his chin at the student with something like a smile. Only then was he able to read the sign hanging on the table, _I will talk to you about literally anything for five minutes._ It surprised a chuckle right out of him. There passed a moment of indecision before he felt the warmth of a hand on his shoulder.

“You've got time before class,” Combeferre mumbled next to his ear.

So, he sat, and he watched the man hit the start button on a timer on the table, and he said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” the other laughed. “I'd hoped you'd come.”

Enjolras cleared his throat, heating from his chest to his forehead. “I—What's your name?”

“I'm Grantaire, and you're..?”

“Enjolras. Are you a student? Why are you doing this?"

The—Grantaire scratched through the scruff on his chin and hummed moment. “I go to school here, yeah, and this is easier than getting a legitimate job,” he answered.

“What's with the kid?” Enjolras demanded before thinking better of it.

“You must be a riot on first dates,” the other teased lightly. His expression sobered quickly, though. “His name is Gavroche, the kid brother of a friend of mine. He's been in gymnastics since he started walking, just about. I let him take home half of what we get when we perform, and tourists get cool pictures of potential child endangerment.” He said it all so earnestly that Enjolras didn't even think to question it, instead spending far _too much_ time staring at the man. “Why haven't you ever said anything to me before?”

Opening his mouth, the student started to say... something. Bullshit, probably. “I don't know. What was I supposed to say?”

“'Hey, how's it going? I really dig the way your lame magic tricks bring out the crazy in your eyes,'” suggested the performer with a cocked brow.

“The tricks weren't _that_ lame,” he mumbled. In reality, Enjolras then realized that he was always much more practiced at addressing a room full of strangers than one man.

“They're pretty lame, but people tend to like lame,” Grantaire mused. He folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. “You look uncomfortable. Am I making you uncomfortable?” The smile that teased his lips certainly implied he didn't mind making Enjolras uncomfortable.

“This is... different, for me,” the student admitted, shifting. “Why are you doing _this?_ ” he asked, fingering the edge of the sign in front of him. “Why talk to strangers on the street? What are you getting from it?” He saw that the tip jar was suspiciously empty.

There was a beat of silence and then, “It's too cold to draw and I didn't really feel like moving a lot. Kind of lazy like that. And people are pretty funny about strangers. Put a sign in front of someone inviting them to talk and they'll do it really freely because it's _safe_. What am I gonna do, judge? I perform stupid tricks on the sidewalk to make money. It's why people can be so free on the internet—the anonymity of meeting with a stranger enables you to be yourself. For some. I like to hear people talk like that.”

“Oh, that—that actually makes a lot of sense,” Enjolras conceded, taken aback.

“There's also this guy—this beautiful stranger—who's been watching me since the start of the semester, and I wanted to see if I could trick him into talking to me,” he said, eyes bright but mouth very serious

“Oh?” the other coughed. “How's that going?”

Biting his lip, the performer seemed to consider his answer carefully before, “Well, I think I freaked him out. Which is fair, I'm kind of a freaky-lookin' dude. I don't think he'll want to talk to me anymore, but I kind of had to try.”

It felt like a confession that Enjolras had no right to hear.

“The stranger probably wasn't much of a conversationalist, anyway. You'd probably be better off if he disappeared in a cloud of antisocial shame,” he replied, aiming for and utterly missing humor.

“Nah, I just offered to help him practice. I'm excellent for that,” Grantaire grinned, winking.

“And what did he say?”

“Oh, he accepted my offer,” he said carefully.

Huffing a laugh, Enjolras found his mouth was suddenly very dry. “Smart guy. So, are you two meeting again?”

“Well, I suggested we grab a coffee tomorrow after my last final, at this little cafe down the road, around two,” said the man, tone easy and light but a hint of tension in his hands.

“He'd be very silly to have said no.”

The chime of the timer made him start a little and he found himself looking at it. He'd almost forgotten there was a shelf-life on this conversation. Reluctantly, he stood, and Grantaire stood with him. He took the man's hand and the handshake lasted maybe too long. “I—I should get to class,” he said lowly. “This was... interesting, thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” replied the performer.

“I'll see you, then,” Enjolras mumbled, going back to Combeferre, who had apparently just been waiting for him.

“Tomorrow,” Grantaire called after him, making him duck his head and glance back.

“Tomorrow?” asked Combeferre coolly. “What's tomorrow?”

Walking in silence for some time, Enjolras rubbed his hands together and jammed them in his pockets. “I... I'm meeting him tomorrow,” he answered, feigning disinterest.

“Huh,” his friend grunted. “That's good. You _should_ get out more. It'll be good for you. Besides,” he stopped long enough to look back. “He's not _so_ unattractive.” Instead of answering, Enjolras hunkered more deeply into his coat.


End file.
